


Hunger

by ebenflo



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them x Hunger Games crossover, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Barebone volunteers as tribute, Grindelwald is a terrible president, Inspired by The Hunger Games, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is awful no matter what verse, Percival Graves is a victor, Protective Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-04 00:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10262114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebenflo/pseuds/ebenflo
Summary: For the 76th Annual Hunger Games, President Grindelwald bends the rules to make them even more cruel, if such a thing were possible."Each district shall select two tributes...one new, and one from the existing pool of Victors."Designed to demonstrate that old or young, all must bend to the laws of the Capitol. When his sister Modesty's name is pulled out of the bowl for District 12, it's a no-brainer for Credence to volunteer and take her place. Besides, it isn't like his mother would miss him if he went. And dying from a sudden blow in the Arena had to be better than dying slowly in the slums of the Seam, right?But what of the mysterious Percival Graves, the decorated Victor from District 2? What motive lies behind his sudden interest in Credence? After all, there are twenty four of them, and only one comes out...





	1. Prologue

"Credence, over here!"

"Credence, I love your coat, who is that by?"

"Credence, you should drop by and see our Fall collection!"

_Credence Credence Credence_

His name repeated over and over until it lost all meaning and reduced him to a simple catch-phrase, an idea rather than a person. And wasn't that what he was now? Just another symbol, an idol for the Capitol to fawn over and raise up on a false pedestal. Credence gritted his teeth and tried his best to smile politely, weaving through the throngs of admirers with a grace that did not come naturally to him by any means. On the surface he was all elegant lines and expensive tailoring, the immaculate material of his trousers clinging to him like a second skin. He answered the media's questions as best he could. He mingled with diplomats and law-makers, courteously accepting tokens and occasionally phone numbers (he tore those up later). On the inside he was still a total mess, waiting for the next blow, the next fall.

His eyes skirted over the writhing masses in all their baubles and finery. A group of handsome bearded men waved, trying to catch his attention. The interest in their eyes not entirely innocent. Next to them three older women were gossiping by a fountain shaped like a horned serpent. They turned to stare at him as he hurried past.

He couldn't see Graves. The collar at his throat suddenly seemed to restrict his breathing and he let out a small pained gasp.

"Credence, try these," Queenie had materialised at his elbow, holding out a platter of tiny sparkling jellies. "The orange ones are to die for, it's said they taste like a sunrise."

Credence wondered what the hell a sunrise was supposed to taste like. Queenie was her usual radiant outlandish self, dressed head to toe in some kind of frothy pink extravaganza that undoubtedly cost more than one family's living expenses for a whole year, back in the Seam. The Seam, Credence thought with a pang that almost gutted him. He had almost forgotten about the way the sunlight danced over the little jostling creeks and streams, the feel of the long-grass as he wandered through the overgrown fields that flanked the outskirts of town. Queenie's voice brought his attention back to the present. "Honey?"

Queenie bumped his shoulder with her own, the corners of her lips upturned in a teasing smirk.

"Why the long face Sunshine?"

"I am smiling," Credence argued, baring his teeth in what he hoped was a smile. Queenie lifted one immaculate eyebrow at him.

"You call that smiling? This is a party! A celebration! Celebrate!" She thrust the tray of sweets at him, refusing to budge until he picked up one of the delicate cubes between his thumb and forefinger. She watched until it had slipped past his lips. She was right though. It did taste like the sunrise, or at least as close to what he could imagine.

"It's good, you were right. You're always right," Credence remarked honestly, and Queenie smiled, her teeth perfect little white squares set against the backdrop of her fuschia pink lips.

"Oh you slay me!" She giggled breathily, handing the dish of desserts to a passing waiter before turning her attention back to Credence.

"Are you looking for your Mr Graves?"

Credence frowned darkly.

"He's not _my_ Mr Graves."

Queenie was one of the few people Credence felt he could trust, and even then it was usually in the privacy of a closed room. Out here it was too exposed and open with far too many prying eyes and ears in their near vicinity. However there was something clawing at Credence from inside that he couldn't ignore. It was like being hungry and thirsty at the same time. The pain of his injuries from the Arena couldn't compare with the gnawing empty feeling inside him. Graves hadn't made any attempt to be close with him since leaving the Arena. He had seemed to barely tolerate the photoshoots and pagents, dropping Credence's hand as soon as the cameras stopped rolling on them.

"Oh honey, he's still the same man you met in the Arena," Queenie said sadly, patting his hand. "He's just confused is all."

"Yeah well, maybe he should have let me die in the Games, I'm sure it would have made his life a lot easier," Credence spat bitterly, being mindful to keep his voice low. "Honestly, I don't know what he's thinking."

"Well maybe now's your chance to ask him, Doll." Queenie murmured slyly, nodding in a direction over Credence's left shoulder.

Credence turned slowly, his heart thundering so loudly in his chest he was sure Queenie and half the party guests could hear it's pounding tattoo.

It took a moment to find him through the crowds but there he was, like a figure come out of Credence's dreams to soothe or torment him, he didn't know which. He was lingering by the hedges at the far corner of the garden. In his hands he held a small flute of sparkling silver liquid, which he raised every few moments to his lips. Credence tried hard not to think of how those lips had tasted. Around Graves there was a small crowd of admirers, simpering and laughing at everything the man said.

Suddenly Graves looked up and saw Credence looking at him, and held that gaze for longer than was decent.

 _He's your lover,_ Credence reminded himself, _It's completely appropriate for him to look at you like that._ Somehow the thought served only to make him more miserable.

Graves continued to entertain the group around him, but his eyes were focused on one thing and one thing alone: Credence.

With a low groan Credence fought against the familiar tightening in his belly and the surge of blood that pooled in his crotch.

"You should go to him," Queenie encouraged. "You're supposed to be madly in love, remember? You might try acting like it."

"Trouble is," Credence confessed, "I don't have to act."


	2. Chapter 2

The day of the Reaping was hot and dry, the shingles on the roof crackling already under the morning sun. Credence woke early, stretching his limbs under his scratchy blankets, willing himself to find five minutes more sleep before he had to face the sobering reality of the day. He knew this was futile, he knew what had woken him up. Modesty's screams could wake the dead. Her nightmares came more frequently, the closer it got to the Reaping. She dreamed of blood and fire. She dreamed the same things he did. Ma was no help, her bitterness worsened not softened by the cries of her youngest child. None of them were related by blood of course, but when the mines collapsed and took their folks well before their prime, Ma was the only one who would take them in. Credence knew she wasn't well-liked; he could hear the town folk talk sometime and it wasn't often kind words. He wasn't sure which he despised more, the bitter lash of her tongue or the hardened strap against his back. The Games were cake-walk next to his Ma. Credence half smiled in the stifling shell of his room but it was short-lived. Modesty needed him.

He stumbled to her room and found her crouched at the end of her mattress, tiny frame trembling beneath the weight of whatever terrors she had faced this time. Credence held her as she cried, anger at Ma and anger at the system that ruled their lives helping him keep his own bones from shaking apart. Modesty needed him to be strong, so that was what he would try to be. Every day, but especially when the Reaping came. He couldn't let her see how frightened he was.

"But what if it is me?" Modesty asked timidly, the tip of her nose red from crying.

"Your name's only in there once," Credence reassured, stroking her thin silvery hair. "It won't be you."

It was silly to make these promises because none of them were safe. They never would be, under Grindelwald's rule.

*

Dressed in a pretty cotton shift the colour of a baby rabbit's fur, Modesty sat stiff and proper under Ma's hand as she guided a rough bristled brush through Modesty's hair, pulling it back into a tight braid. It seemed sick and strange to Credence that the only time Ma showed any sort of tenderness towards them was on the day of the Reaping.

 _Like lambs to the slaughter,_ Credence thought darkly, pressing himself against the wooden door frame and watching the scene before him with hooded eyes. The heat from the outside world seeped in through the walls of their tiny shack, clogging his breath and making his palms sweat.

"Credence."

Ma was not a woman you kept waiting. He shuffled forwards, wishing for once he had the fortitude to speak back to her. He bowed his head shamefully and was surprised to see her hands held out in front of her, holding what appeared to be a powder blue tunic, the colour of a robin's egg.

"It was your father's."

Credence didn't know how she had come by his things, or what else she had kept from him when it came to his parents. He knew so little about them, apart from a tiny locket with their photos, yellow and curling at the edges, and a few stolen stories from the townsfolk. He was ashamed when he felt tears in his eyes, slipping the soft material of the tunic over his head. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into the folds of the garment, imagining that maybe if he tried hard enough he would catch a whiff of old cologne or the grease of the mines. But there was nothing, just musty linen, and he held in a quiet sob.

*

She wasn't such a little girl any more but Credence held Modesty's hand tightly as they made their way through the crowd, joining the queue where they checked people in. As they stood in the merciless heat, in the dust bowl that was their main steet, Credence glanced over at the front of the hall where a temporary stage had been erected, its brightly coloured banners and ribbons in stark contrast to the crumbling concrete greys and faded blues that adorned so much of their town's architecture. A large fishbowl sat on a pedestal, containing the name of every eligible young person in their district. In many cases some would find their name twice, three times in that bowl. He had once heard that someone had their name in the bowl seventeen times, but the story had been muddled over the years and he wasn't even sure it was from their district. Such was Grindelwald's cruelty that he offered a cure from starvation with damnation; the lure of more rations in exchange for extra chances at being selected for the Games. Credence suddenly felt unsure of his own safety. Modesty had been ill over the cruel winter months and Ma had been too busy with her Church to provide for them. His name was in there four times.

*

Credence watched with some guarded curiosity as a young woman took to the stage, taking the small set of steps with ease despite the deadly looking heels she was teetering on. She wore a shimmering set of robes the kind a witch or wizard might wear. The fabric shimmered and sparkled, catching glints of blues and reds. Credence had never seen such an outfit before. It stood out very much in amongst the drab garb of District 12, but then again nothing that came from the Capitol had any resemblance or similarity whatsoever to the daily lives of the common folk. The woman had a very pretty face, though her naturally beautiful features were hidden behind a layer of the type of hideous cosmetics the Capitol seemed so fond of. When she opened her painted gold lips to speak, her voice was light and bubbly, at complete odds with the uncaring words she conveyed.

"Welcome welcome...welcome! To the 76th Annual Hunger Games. I'm Queenie Goldstein, and I will be selecting your champions to represent your little District and make you all so very proud."

She spoke as though they would be competing in the town's annual fair for largest vegetable or best game pie, instead of being sent away to an Arena where it was kill or be killed. A blow to the head with the back of an axe. An arrow through the spleen. Credence suddenly felt a wave of nausea sweep over him and he looked anxiously over to where the girls were grouped, searching in the rows of people for Modesty.

"...the selection will be different. Each district shall select two tributes...one new, and one from the existing pool of Victors." Credence turned back to the stage. He had forgotten that rule. Another of Grindelwald's little designs, aimed at demonstrating to the populace that whether young or old, victor or novice, everyone was subject to the laws of Capitol. Everyone would live or die by Grindelwald's hand.

Distracted, Credence turned back to his search for Modesty, hoping to offer some modicum of support. He barely registered when Queenie Goldstein read out the name of the first Tribute, one of their three previous Victors. Modesty's chances of being selected were slim to none. There were many, like him, who had their name in there several times. For himself, though he was fearful, Credence did not hold any hope. But for Modesty, whose life had barely begun at a mere eight years old...Credence curled his hands into fists, his ragged nails pressing hard into his skin. He simply couldn't think like that.

"The second Tribute...Modesty Barebone!"

_No._

_No._

Someone in the crowd let out a blood-curdling shriek, the voice too high to be Modesty's. Credence followed the sound and saw one of the little girls from Modesty's school class in hysterics, holding on to the arm of a very pale and very shaken Modesty, who for all her cries and whimpers from her night terrors, now stood stock-still.

_NO!_

There was a flutter of activity as the crowd surged a litle, pressing Modesty closer to the podium.

Credence's heart gave a great leap and he lunged forward, barely noticing the guards that attempted to catch him.

"I volunteer," the words had left his lips before he could even think twice. "I volunteer as tribute."


End file.
